The Pompatus of Love
by bowtiesarecoolsir
Summary: No one ever said that growing up was easy. Sometimes, it's hard work. Everyone has a story to tell...


Rain was falling softly from a grimy dark gray sky, the crackling of thunder rumbling in the background. Drops of water created small craters on the surface of the lake, temporarily splashing water back up into the air in an exchange. The mud at the banks sloshed with the waves, ripples slowly forming with each lap of murky water. A little boy sat on the grass in his raincoat and boots, refusing to come in for the afternoon.

"James Potter!"

He crossed his arms over his knees, pulling them closer to his chest with a pout. He didn't want to go in, even if he _was_ drenched to the bone and shivering. It was more of a thing of principle, really. He was upset, and going inside would mean his parents won, and he didn't want any of that. So instead, he sat outside in the pouring rain, not saying a word.

His mother was calling for him from the garden, starting to get frustrated. Not frustrated enough, however, to want to run through the muck that covered their yard to go and grab the boy herself. No… his father could deal with him.

The progressive drum beat of the shower against the lake had a relaxing effect after a few minutes, causing James' stubbornness to fade into a mellow haze. He could hear the loud mushing of his father's footsteps come up behind him, echoing louder than the sound of the chirping bugs and birds, but he didn't stir. A sudden rush of warmth came over him, the downpour seeming to cease in a solid dome around him. He blinked away a few drops of water from his hazel eyes as he looked up, the falling rain seeming to bend sideways in mid-fall, avoiding him.

His father stood behind him, wand outstretched as he leaned over the boy, looking down, "Your mum has treacle tart out to cool. If you come in and wash up, I might be able to convince her to give you some." He gave the young boy a small smile, the edges of his worn lips curling up slightly in amusement as he saw his son's pout.

James shook his head, looking from the man who he resembled closely, and staring out at the gloomy landscape. His parents said he could stay out and play until dinner was ready, and it wasn't dinner time yet. He could feel his hair starting to dry, his father ruffling it gently and working a bit of magic, "C'mon, kiddo. You're going to get sick sitting out here."

It wasn't until a loud crack emanated from the heavens that James stood to his feet, backing up from his spot and falling back against his father's chest. Light flickered across their property as Mark shifted his free hand to his son's shoulder, "It's alright… I'm here." Crouching down and kissing the boy's temple, he murmured steadily, "Let's go inside. Get you warmed up." This time, the boy didn't object, moving quickly to follow his dad inside, a trail of mud tracking from the French doors, through to the kitchen.

Jane moved to close the doors behind the two, locking them secure before looking to the mess. She sighed in slight annoyance and pulled out her wand, cleaning up every spec of mud that lined the wooden floors, "Mark… get him in the bath, please. Dinner should be done by the time he's out." Mark shouted a few words of acknowledgement and ushered the boy upstairs to his room, reiterating the importance of washing _everything_.

The child groaned, but didn't have the energy to argue. He knew that if he didn't clean up properly the first time, his mother would end up sending him back upstairs with his father, and that he would end up spending half of the evening being groomed. So, he decided he would make sure it was done right the first time.

_Wash behind your ears. Wash under your nails. Wash your back, your nose, and your toesies, too._

He replayed the little chant in his head, knowing he really didn't _need_ it as a reminder anymore. It was just one of those things that left a searing mark on your brain; something that you didn't consciously think of. It was just there… A little song that his mother had chimed to him countless times when he had been younger, and was just learning to wash himself.

He scrubbed the dirt from his hair and the mud from his face. The water splashed around him, brown as it dribbled down the drain. It wasn't until every inch of his skin was rubbed cherry red, and the water ran clear, that he felt he could finally get out and dry off. His towel was slightly damp, having fallen in the tub as he attempted to get out of the bath. It drooped down where the water had soaked it, leaving small puddles behind the boy as he started for his bedroom.

His four-poster bed sat in the center of the room, sheets a deep red, with the hems and detailing emblazoned with gold. The walls were covered in posters of his favorite Quidditch teams and players, mainly from Puddlemere United and the Holyhead Harpies. Puddlemere for their skill, and Holyhead for their… well… they were pretty girls. His father always insisted that one day, the boy would thank him for making him a fan so early in life. He figured he might understand sooner than later, though for the time being, he liked to hide those posters behind the others.

His wardrobe was perched by the entrance to the room, bookshelf on the wall adjacent. His bathroom was to the right of the entrance, and everything positioned where it was created a nice cozy space for him to live in. His cluttered desk was beside his bookshelf, to the left, which was stocked with books he didn't read; mainly because he had no reason to, yet. Most of them were spell books, and spell books weren't worth much to him since he had yet to receive a wand.

His mother had said that he would be allowed to have one once he turned eleven, but his father tried to let on that it would probably be before that. He hoped that it would be one of his Christmas presents that year. Perhaps a surprise trip to Diagon Alley, with a quick stop at Ollivander's… Yeah. That would be a great present. That, and the newest Nimbus.

James thought about the different things he might want to put on his Christmas list as he pulled out his pants and pajamas, moving to sit on the bed and slide them on. His hair was still damp, leaving a semi-circle of wetness along the collar of his shirt as he raced out of his room and down the stairs, weaving through the halls and down to the kitchen. The food was set out on the kitchen table, his parents ignoring it as they leaned against the counters.

He made a face as he spotted his dad pinning his mum there, watching as they snogged playfully, giggles and all. Letting out a noise of general disgust, he started for the table, speaking up in an attempt to get them to stop, "Ugh, gross."

The two smiled as they broke their kiss, his father grinning as he slid his hands away from his wife's waist, "Oh, it won't be gross in a few years, kiddo." With a wink, Mark sat across from the boy, Jane moving to sit beside him. There was a light flush across her cheeks, her bright blue orbs still slightly glazed over, "He's right, you know."

James simply rolled his eyes, picking up his fork and poking at the spaghetti and meatballs his mother had cooked for them all, "Why do you guys always say that?" It wasn't that he didn't know that that was what mummies and daddies did, but it was the fact that they thought that _he_ was going to want to do that. No… He didn't. Girls were gross, and had germs, and he didn't want to touch them. They didn't like getting dirty, or playing rough. They just liked playing with dolls and brushing their hair… and they weren't anything he wanted involved with.

His parents simply exchanged a knowing look, Mark being the one to speak for the two of them this time, "Because one day, we'll be right. Just might take a few years for you to get there." He chuckled soft, "Go ahead and eat. There's no need to worry about any of that right now."

And with that, James stabbed a meatball with his fork, devouring it in a messier fashion than his mother would have liked.


End file.
